


Bars Like This

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Facials, M/M, Repression, Shame, Voyeurism, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's on his knees. He's on his knees on the dirty floor of a public restroom in a seedy bar, and it should be a nightmare but he's so aroused he can hardly breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bars Like This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Javert isn't really sure anymore what made him search out that bar for the first time. If he's honest with himself, he can admit that it was some time after he first returned to the city. The memory was still thick and heavy in his stomach then, the disgust at years of being played for a fool, the helpless loathing and anger when he can't get those eyes out of his head.

Maybe that's why he went, the first time. Anything to get rid of that memory. It's not a memory anyway, he tells himself. So much of Jean Valjean was fake. He remembers his defiance in the hospital. He remembers his own gun in Valjean's hand.

He tells himself to remember the sullen arrogance of the prisoner. It's still easy to recall after all these years. That glare. The way that animal wildness could only be controlled with heavy collars and beatings. They're all the same. There's no reason he should remember Valjean for anything other than what will always be at the core of him.

Javert hates bars like this. He wishes he hadn't spent enough time doing raids in these places to know exactly what sort of filth takes place here. He wishes the knowledge of what exactly can happen here isn't branded onto the insides of his lids with red-hot heat, haunting him when he closes his eyes at night.

Most of all he wishes he was wearing his coat. His hands twitch uselessly at his side, and he resists the urge to stroke down the shirt he's wearing. There's no leather to smooth, no way to reassure himself that everything is as it should be.

He's wearing a shirt and jeans and he hates the lack of the coat covering him when he enters the bar. They're all staring at him. He tells himself that it's not because of why he's here. No one knows why he's here. Javert doesn't even know why he's here. None of this makes sense, but he knows that when they look at him they cannot know, because no one has ever known; his entire life and no one has ever known--

It doesn't take that long in the end. He hasn't even finished the beer he has ordered, ignoring the smile the barkeeper gives him. He isn't here to make friends, he tells himself. To be part of a community, whatever that means. To be--

The hand on his arm is too hot and he hates the way it grips him. He wants to shrug it off. He feels ashamed and embarrassed and there's sweat running down his back, and there's that hand on his arm and he doesn't shake it off.

He hates the way the guy tries to talk to him. He hates how he can't come up with real answers, and he hates that the guy has broad shoulders that make him feel that sick, empty ache in his stomach, his throat dry as his eyes linger.

God, what does it take to make a man shut up and--

He can't finish the thought. He's finished his beer. His tongue is heavy and fuzzy in his mouth, and he wants something harder, and he wants to leave, and he wants this stranger to--

There's a hand lingering easily on his thigh now. He wants to shrug that off too, skittish and nervous and disgusted. Mostly he's disgusted at himself. He doesn't look at his face. He looks at the hand on his thigh instead. The fingers are short. There's dark hair on his arm, and when he lets his eyes wander, the guy's thighs are strong and his jeans are tight. For a moment, Javert is tempted to imagine those sullen eyes and the sneer on that face. How quickly it would turn to shock and loathing if he were to find Javert in a place like this, how Javert could lead him into the restroom and push him against the wall and push down bright orange pants and...

He closes his eyes for a second to banish the thought. That's all wrong. That's not what's going to happen. That's not even what he wants. He tells himself that again: it's really not what he wants.

He makes himself look at the guy's face this time, forcing himself to ignore the twinge of disappointment in his stomach. Then he follows him out to his car and his apartment until he's in a stranger's bed, gripping a stranger's sheets, listening to that stranger grunt and moan as he fucks him. Javert stares at the sheets below him, doesn't think of anything, doesn't think of the strangers face or the strength of those powerful thighs that fuck him hard enough that he has to steady himself with a hand against the headboard. It's almost working.

If he closes his eyes, it's almost enough. He reaches down to pull at himself, biting back a groan. The guy is big and tireless, and as Javert strokes himself, the sensations slot seamlessly into the old fantasy. In the end, like always, Javert closes his eyes, and then it's just the ache of his hole and the sex sounds and the pressure inside him. It's so good that he moans, and he hates that too, but for a while, with his eyes closed while the need inside him builds, he thinks of how _he_ would like to hear him moan, and is sickeningly, violently aroused.

***

It takes a while until he finds himself back again. Nothing has changed – maybe the music has. Maybe the people have. But he's still disgusted by the entire thing, and disgusted by how there's more than loathing churning in his stomach. He moves his shoulders uncomfortably when he sits down. He's still missing the weight of the coat, the comforting, familiar smoothness of the leather. There's another beer, the unwanted attention of the bartender, then the uncomfortable closeness of a stranger sitting next to him.

Javert hates the small talk. He wishes the guy would just say what he wants. After all, Javert is proud of the fact that he has never lied. It feels like lying, to talk about football or the weather or traffic when all he cares about is the growing urgency in his stomach. Already his hand is nearly shaking when he wraps it around his bottle, because all he can think of is that soon, he'll follow this stranger home and feel those strong thighs against his own as he gets fucked in another bed, panting his moans into another stranger's sheets. What would Valjean say if he knew? Javert imagines a sullen, derisive stare, and then the guy's hand is on his thigh and Javert realizes he's painfully hard.

It's less satisfying this time. Javert doesn't allow himself to think of why that might be. He tells himself that it doesn't have anything to do with the man's hands on him or with the way the guy keeps moaning his name—although that's probably it. He should never have given his name. What if one day it all gets back to someone who knows him, God! How can he be so careless. He shouldn't go back.

He really can't go back after this.

***

He manages to wait a few weeks. It's bad that night when he gives in. He hasn't been able to sleep well. He's restless, nervous after a few days off, his nights plagued by dreams. Maybe it's just that he's sleeping too much. He does well with little sleep and hard work. He has always done well. These days without structure, when he wakes too late and can't sleep when he's tired... He's not made for those days.

Javert is determined not to draw it out this time. He is itching and uncomfortable even before he enters, has to keep wiping his hands on his thighs. The barkeeper tries to talk to him; Javert stares at his beer in desperate unhappiness.

Does the guy remember him?

There's hundreds of people coming in here any given month, he tells himself. He'll be forgotten in an hour. He's just like everyone else, coming here for--

There's another guy, and Javert breathes a sigh of relief. He makes half-hearted small-talk, hating every single moment of it, hating the way the expectation in him rises. It's a crawling feeling on his skin that makes his hands sweaty and his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. It's stupid, all of this is stupid. Why does he even bother. Why all this talk. The guy is too tall and not broad enough and Javert stares at his hands. The man has slender, elegant fingers; no rings. Javert wishes desperately that he could trust them to rest heavy on the small of his back, keeping him pressed down into the bed while he gets fucked hard enough that he won't have to dream for a week.

Maybe he shouldn't have bothered to come, he thinks even as he gets up, carefully avoiding the barkeeper's eyes as he turns to follow the guy outside.

Instead, he finds himself lead back into the bar. He hasn't gone this way before. He smoothes his hands nervously over his jeans, tries to draw himself up again as he brushes past people – he's tall, he knows he's intimidating. Even without his coat and his badge and his gun he's someone people make way for. And there's no reason, no reason at all that someone should look at him here and know what he--

His thoughts cut off when the guy leads him into the restroom.

The mirror is cracked. The place looks dirty. The lamp over the mirror flickers from time to time, and Javert suddenly and desperately hates this entire place with a loathing so violent it surprises himself.

It's really not what he came here for. It's really not...

“Come on,” the guy says and nods to the only stall that has a door. Javert stares at it, the disgust in him growing. It's not too late. He could just go. He doesn't need this. He doesn't need _this_ \--

In the end, he ends up where he belongs. Hands against the dirty wall. The stranger groaning as he fucks him. The stretch as he's used hard.

It's almost enough, he tells himself, furious and ashamed. No. It is enough. It has to be enough. He's learned his lesson and he's not going to come back to this place after this.

He really isn't.

***

He's on his knees. He's on his knees on the dirty floor of a public restroom in a seedy bar, and it should be a nightmare but he's so aroused he can hardly breathe. This one is good. This one is just right. Short and broad, the hard eyes of an ex-con, ink on his skin—the color of the skin's wrong, and so is the hair, but it doesn't matter because what matters is that the eyes are perfect, dark and hard, and Javert pants, mouth wide open.

There's a dick in front of his face. It's so close he can almost taste it. He's been forced to taste it, and now he wants it in his mouth again, thick enough to fill his throat until he cannot breathe. From the corner of his eye, he can see himself in the mirror. The shame makes it almost better, because God, the way he looks! It's what been missing in all those porn movies. None of them got it right. But this... This gets it right. Sick excitement fills his stomach as he stares at those strong thighs again, muscles shifting beneath the tight jeans. The guy's fly is open, and he holds his cock in his fist. It's hard and huge, and dripping with Javert's spit.

Unthinkingly, Javert moans, and the guy laughs. Even the voice is almost right. Javert sways forward a little, drawn by the fat, purple head of the cock that gleams wetly in the flickering, harsh light, but the man grabs his hair and pushes him back.

“You can ask for what you want,” he says. Javert can hear voices outside the door. What will he do if someone comes in?

He licks his lips, staring at the man's cock. He'd still ask for it, he thinks, sickened and aroused by the image. God. He'd still ask for it and let them watch. That's what he is.

“I want you to... Would you, umm.” His voice is thick and hoarse. He sounds exactly like he just had a huge cock down his throat. He licks his lips again, thinks of the weight of it on his tongue, the rough slide into his throat. “Would you come on my face. Please.”

He hates himself a little more for how pathetic that sounds. God, he can't even do this right, not even when he's on his knees in a goddamn public restroom.

The fingers in his hair tighten until he winces, and still he doesn't take his eyes off that swollen cock.

“Open your mouth,” the guy says, and Javert obeys, panting and ignoring the way spit drools from the corner of his mouth. How pathetic he must look. The man is stroking himself, and he can't look away, his stomach churning with anticipation. Someone's still talking outside the door. God, let him finish before someone comes in, Javert prays, and his cock throbs against his jeans at the thought.

He's panting for it by the time the guy finishes, panting open-mouthed, his chin slick with spit and his eyes tearing from the harsh light blinding him. A splash of come hits his cheek and drips warm down his skin. Another spatters across his lips, hits his tongue, and he groans. He wants that cock down his throat again, hands in his hair to hold him in place. Instead he makes himself wait, mouth wide open. It's obscene, and his cock is so hard it hurts.

More come hits his mouth, pooling hot on his tongue. He doesn't swallow, allows the taste to spread, holding himself still while the man groans. In the harsh light that makes Javert's eyes tear up, the short, broad figure towering above him could be anyone, could have the right skin, the right tattoos, the right disdain. All Javert can do is hold still for it, and in that moment, with the shame as thick as the come on his tongue, he can hear the door open and takes that too, his cock throbbing relentlessly. And he would like that, wouldn't he, wouldn't Valjean love to show him off like this with come sliding in thick gobs down his face and--

The guy groans, satisfied, and then tucks himself away. Javert's still on his knees, horrified and aroused and he hasn't even come. God, he hasn't even gotten off himself, and he can't, he really can't jerk himself off still kneeling on the floor while someone else is standing at the sink now, washing his hands.

For a moment, he contemplates sliding his hands into his jeans, jerking himself off with two strangers watching. But the guy is already stepping away, and at last shame wins out over the haze of need. When the door closes, Javert realizes that he's still kneeling, that there's still come on his face and on his tongue. He forces himself to swallow, his throat tight, trying to conjure one last vision of Valjean's disdain, but it's not enough to get himself off—not with the presence of some other stranger still standing at the mirror behind him.

You're sick, Javert tells himself as he rises and wipes at the streaks of come on his face. And he saw it all.

He has a tissue in his pocket, wipes at his face and his sticky hands. It's not enough, and at last, despite the shame sitting low in his stomach, he makes himself turn and walk to the sink, grabbing some of the paper towels with shaking hands. He wipes himself off quickly before he can look up by accident to see the other's face.

Better not to know, he tells himself numbly. Anyway, it's time to leave and he'll just go home and maybe stop on the way for a bottle of whiskey or vodka or anything really. Anything so he can fall asleep without turning on his laptop again.

“Hey,” the other says after a moment, and, horrified, Javert looks up. Their eyes meet in the mirror. Javert immediately looks away again, fingers tightening around the wad of tissue in his hand.

“Would you like to... I'm off in half an hour. We could have another beer at my place. If you'd like?”

It's the fucking bartender. It's the fucking bartender being so fucking nice and Javert wishes he could punch the damn mirror with that understanding smile in it.

He clenches his jaw until it hurts and then he turns and leaves, and he can feel his gaze burning at the back off his neck, and he hates this place so fucking much and wishes he'd never started coming here.


End file.
